


lie back (and think of america)

by calciseptine



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel
Genre: M/M, POV Second Person, Riding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-13
Updated: 2011-11-13
Packaged: 2017-10-26 01:29:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/277048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calciseptine/pseuds/calciseptine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"So vanilla," he teases without rancor. "I'll never know why this is your favorite, Cap."</p>
            </blockquote>





	lie back (and think of america)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [capkink](http://capkink.livejournal.com/) on lj, for [this prompt](http://capkink.livejournal.com/810.html?thread=453930#t453930): _Steve really likes it when Tony rides him._ I think I screamed, "ADSLFKJASBLASDJFKLJ" when I saw this prompt and then fell over twitching.

The first time you and Tony make love—the first time you have sex with a man—he lays you flat and straddles your waist. His sharp, bony knees knock against your ribs and his curled fist presses on your sternum. He purrs, "I got you, baby," before he sinks down, and down, and down, until you choke and your eyelids flicker and you grasp at the sheets, unable to still the desperate undulation of your body. He's so tight, so hot, so utterly perfect and beyond what you could comprehend that you come, trembling, as you trembled when you were reborn from ice.

"Sorry," you gasp when you have the air, when you have a scrap of coherency, when you are boneless, sated, yet flushed pink with the humiliation of coming like an addled teenager. The unsettling combination makes your muscles twitch. "I'm sorry—"

"Don't be," Tony replies, his hooded eyes dark and his wet mouth a tender smile. He grabs one of your hands and wraps it around his cock, hissing when you rub your tentative thumb over the damp head. You jerk him off like this: your dry fist clenched almost too tight, your free hand heavy on the swell of his ass, with sweet nonsense and his name on your tongue. He rocks his hips steadily with you still inside. You stay hard, each movement raw and too much, too much.

When he comes—a hot, white mess between your fingers—his entire body tightens, a length of lean muscle and sinew. The pain you feel is as intense as the pleasure; you buck into his heat and sob for a second release. "Please," you beg, "please Tony please, oh god, _please._ "

He does not, cannot, refuse.

In the days, weeks, and months after, Tony imparts many things. He teaches you how to crook your fingers just so within him, how to relax your throat and swallow, how to tear him apart for the delight of piecing him back together. He shows you that sex is not something to only be done at night underneath the protection of bed sheets, but wherever, whenever, and however you want. Once, you bend him over a work table and take him so fiercely the schematics and tools rattle to the ground. Another time, you pick him up, press his back to the living room wall, and rut against him like an animal, your teeth bared in exertion. You are only surprised by your actions after, yet never enough to forsake the barbarism Tony's sultry, suggestive gazes inspire.

For all the things you try—most of which you like, few of which unsettle you—what you love most is when he takes control and rides you. "So vanilla," he teases without rancor, one lazy morning when you wake him with soft kisses, before you roll over and pull him on top of you. You thrust upwards pointedly, your erection pressing into his cleft. "I'll never know why this is your favorite, Cap."

In truth, there are many reasons. No single reason is greater than another, from the physical to the emotional to the psychological. You wish you could impart each nuance to Tony so he could understand, but there are not enough words in any language which can convey what you feel. Instead, you pull him down for a kiss, and pray that it helps him comprehend even a simple fraction of what your soul contains.

Tony is still slick and loose from the night before, so it is not long before he tugs on your wrist, pulls your fingers from his hole with a slick pop. He pushes your hands above your head and commands, "Keep them there." A wicked smile graces his sinful mouth as you bite back a moan, teeth harsh on your bottom lip. Then he rises to his knees, the muscles in his thighs tensing beneath the flawless and golden veneer of his flesh, and engulfs you so leisurely you fear for your sanity.

"That's right baby," Tony croons as he rolls his hips. "Just enjoy me, _capice?_ "

And you do, _you do,_ so terribly much it's agony. You want to touch him—pinch his nipples until they pebble, brush your knuckles over his warm and wiry chest hair, slip your thumb into his mouth and press down on the broad of his tongue—but you're better than that. It may take all your stubborn willpower, but you keep your hands in fists above your skull, your skin pulled white over your knuckles. The pain of your fingernails digging into your palms grounds you enough for you to look at Tony. With his straight eyebrows angled in concentration and his lush mouth slack, he is as handsome and enticing as ever. The knowledge that his expression for you and you alone makes you whimper.

Sweat glistens on Tony chest, threading between the dark chest hairs and highlighting the silvery scars above his sternum. You want to taste the rough and salt on your tongue; you must jerk involuntarily forward, because Tony places the heel of his hand in the center of your chest, pushes down, murmurs, "Not yet." His dark eyes are amused, even though his voice cracks with strain.

It is not enough—it is too much. Heat builds under your skin, your lungs shudder for air, and your hips cannot match Tony's slow, torturous pace. Vaguely, you are aware of your begging— _faster, please, harder, I want, I need_ —but you are more aware of how dry your mouth is, how parched your throat feels. You're close, _so close,_ when Tony arches his spine and bears down, so unbearably tight.

"Please," you whine, your arms trembling and nearly numb. "Tell me—"

Tony growls something indecipherable—you hope it's his permission—but your hands are already about his hips if it is not, and you will surrender to the consequences later, when he will have ten perfect bruises from your fingertips, visible to anyone if his shirt rides up even a scant inch, but right then you do not _care_. You pick him up and slam him down once, twice, thrice—and you come with barely audible sob, curling inward until your knees touch Tony's shoulder blades and your forehead rests against his stomach. Tony does not let you rest; he swivels his hips and grinds down, grunting as he follows, moments or minutes later, the warmth of his release in the hollow of your throat.

_Christ,_ you think in that recess of your mind that always remains clear, as the tension in your muscles slowly releases. _I could do this forever._

"Tony," you slur later, when your brain and your body have reconnected. You are growing soft inside him but you enjoy the intimacy; you brush your thumb against his sweat-damp temple, smiling at the stray curl of his wild hair. For as spectacular as the sex is, this is what you crave: Tony stripped of his defensiveness, warm against your side, unable to lie or deny the love that has grown in the hollow spaces he could never before fill. "Tony."

Tony hums contentedly, as though he knows what you wish to say. He probably does. Then, with a smeared and sloppy kiss to your cheek, his goatee scratching the soft skin, "Don't worry Steve—I got you."


End file.
